Read Online Saved by Scandal by Bárbara Metzger - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bárbara Metzger
Tags: Regency Romance
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He, alas, was entangled in one of those silly family arrangements, a tiresome technicality, you might say, un petit pother.” She made shooing motions with her hands. “Now it is swept away like a dust ball, no? And mon cher is free to marry where his heart leads.”
“Who is he, Margot?” The bloods in the pit were less polite than the equally eager listeners in the boxes. “Tell us his name so we can have him drawn and quartered for stealing you away!”
Instead of answering, Margot stepped to the edge of the stage, carefully picking her way past the flambeau lights. When she was almost under Galen’s box, she held one arm extended, with her palm up, in a gesture of giving. Knowing he was somewhere hidden in the shadows, she said, “From now on, mon amour , I sing for you only.”
Amid the loudest applause yet, Galen stepped to the edge of his box and leaned over the railing. He tossed her a single long-stemmed rose, without thorns, of course. Margot caught the flower and brought it to her lips. Then, facing him, and only him, she began to sing the English rendition of Robbie Burns’s tender lyrics: “Oh, my love is like a red, red rose, that’s newly sprung in June. Oh, my love is like the melody, that’s sweetly played in tune.”
Galen sat back, awed at the gift she had given him. In one short speech, Margot had made their marriage seem a love match, not a face-saving act of retaliation. She’d relegated Lady Floria to a dust ball, and removed the sordid stigma of a purchased bride. She’d left them both their dignity, and left the audience in tears at the triumph of true love. Lud, the woman was brilliant! He was brilliant for finding her! Even Florrie was brilliant for knowing their engagement was a soulless financial transaction.
When the papers came out, with the news that the new Lady Woodbridge was a baron’s daughter, even the old tabbies were bound to approve their wedding. There’d still be a scandal, of sorts, with rumors that he’d been carrying on with an opera singer behind Florrie’s back, but no one would blame him, now that they’d seen Margot. By Harry, he was almost tempted to send Florrie her dowry back for doing him such a favor.
As soon as his wife’s last song was finished—Zeus, the remarkable creature was his wife!—Galen hurried out of his box and down the stairs before anyone could come to poke and pry. He found his way backstage and was waiting for Margot as she made her last bows and ran into the wings. He scooped her up and twirled her around, not caring who saw. “You were magnificent, my Margot.” And he kissed her while the applause thundered on from the audience and the stagehands cheered nearby.
“Oh, my,” she said when she could breathe again. The walls were still spinning and her feet did not feel the ground beneath them, not even when Galen put her down. “You…you liked my song?” she whispered, as the play was about to recommence behind them.
“I loved your song, madame wife,” Galen whispered back, “and I think I am falling in love with you.”
Oh, my.
Chapter Eight
Whoever said that two’s company, three’s a crowd, never tried to count how many people could squeeze into one private dining parlor at the Clarendon.
Having decided to dine out when word came that Margot’s dog had eaten the capons, the veal roulades, and the chef’s slippers, Galen thought they’d have a pleasant meal at the luxurious hotel. He’d worry about hiring a new chef tomorrow. This way, Galen reasoned, he’d avoid an intimate tête-à-tête with his bride, a goal to be highly desired in light of his own alarming statement.
He did not love this woman. He admired her courage, her wits, her talent, her beauty, and her loyalty to her brother, that was all. He did not intend to love another woman, ever. What if they decided to end their marriage in six months, either legally or in a tonnish separation? How could he go on with his life with his heart missing?
“Who is he, Margot?” The bloods in the pit were less polite than the equally eager listeners in the boxes. “Tell us his name so we can have him drawn and quartered for stealing you away!”
Instead of answering, Margot stepped to the edge of the stage, carefully picking her way past the flambeau lights. When she was almost under Galen’s box, she held one arm extended, with her palm up, in a gesture of giving. Knowing he was somewhere hidden in the shadows, she said, “From now on, mon amour , I sing for you only.”
Amid the loudest applause yet, Galen stepped to the edge of his box and leaned over the railing. He tossed her a single long-stemmed rose, without thorns, of course. Margot caught the flower and brought it to her lips. Then, facing him, and only him, she began to sing the English rendition of Robbie Burns’s tender lyrics: “Oh, my love is like a red, red rose, that’s newly sprung in June. Oh, my love is like the melody, that’s sweetly played in tune.”
Galen sat back, awed at the gift she had given him. In one short speech, Margot had made their marriage seem a love match, not a face-saving act of retaliation. She’d relegated Lady Floria to a dust ball, and removed the sordid stigma of a purchased bride. She’d left them both their dignity, and left the audience in tears at the triumph of true love. Lud, the woman was brilliant! He was brilliant for finding her! Even Florrie was brilliant for knowing their engagement was a soulless financial transaction.
When the papers came out, with the news that the new Lady Woodbridge was a baron’s daughter, even the old tabbies were bound to approve their wedding. There’d still be a scandal, of sorts, with rumors that he’d been carrying on with an opera singer behind Florrie’s back, but no one would blame him, now that they’d seen Margot. By Harry, he was almost tempted to send Florrie her dowry back for doing him such a favor.
As soon as his wife’s last song was finished—Zeus, the remarkable creature was his wife!—Galen hurried out of his box and down the stairs before anyone could come to poke and pry. He found his way backstage and was waiting for Margot as she made her last bows and ran into the wings. He scooped her up and twirled her around, not caring who saw. “You were magnificent, my Margot.” And he kissed her while the applause thundered on from the audience and the stagehands cheered nearby.
“Oh, my,” she said when she could breathe again. The walls were still spinning and her feet did not feel the ground beneath them, not even when Galen put her down. “You…you liked my song?” she whispered, as the play was about to recommence behind them.
“I loved your song, madame wife,” Galen whispered back, “and I think I am falling in love with you.”
Oh, my.
Chapter Eight
Whoever said that two’s company, three’s a crowd, never tried to count how many people could squeeze into one private dining parlor at the Clarendon.
Having decided to dine out when word came that Margot’s dog had eaten the capons, the veal roulades, and the chef’s slippers, Galen thought they’d have a pleasant meal at the luxurious hotel. He’d worry about hiring a new chef tomorrow. This way, Galen reasoned, he’d avoid an intimate tête-à-tête with his bride, a goal to be highly desired in light of his own alarming statement.
He did not love this woman. He admired her courage, her wits, her talent, her beauty, and her loyalty to her brother, that was all. He did not intend to love another woman, ever. What if they decided to end their marriage in six months, either legally or in a tonnish separation? How could he go on with his life with his heart missing?
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